It drifts to sleep and levitates
above postlines and vacant lots,
past snarling dogs and alleyways.
Has breakfast with the girls,
walks herself home from the bar—
un-catcalled, un-lured, un-armed.
She pauses on the park bench,
becomes one with darkness,
and this time, she is not afraid.
The TVs go on in the windows,
and she does not hear her name.
The men in suits have other things to discuss—
like horse races, and families,
and maybe even how to please their wives.
For once, the crowds do not father her.
In the waiting room,
she is not asked why she is there.
She is not chased with pitchforks and picket signs,
not threatened by your God.
This body is not asked to repent for all her sins.
She is not made an example of,
she does not become a premature crucifixion.
It is dawn now,
she walks past the butcher and the dealers,
the other bodies on the street,
walks past brawls and car alarms,
and this time, she is not afraid
.
When she makes it home again,
she reminisces about freedom.
Where does the sun sleep?
The pit that it hides in,
does it still shine even when not seen?
Are we still golden when invisible?
I mean, are we still golden after so much black and blue?
Are we still golden?
POETRY FESTIVAL. Submit to site for FREE. Submit for actor performance. Submit poem to be made into film. 